


Sight

by cinder_like_ember



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Has Magic, Bad Parenting, Because the bois are adopted by Remile, Bullying, Car Accidents, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nonbinary Logic | Logan Sanders, Other, POV First Person, Parental Death, Remus gets hallucinations, Trans Male Morality | Patton Sanders, Virgil POV, Virgil's name is actually never said, because he refers to himself as I, i haven't even read through it, i really need to sleep tho, inspiration struck when i was staring into the void, just wrote it all at once, mentioned - Freeform, pls dont judge i wrote this in 3 hours when i should have been sleeping, think thats it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24280237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinder_like_ember/pseuds/cinder_like_ember
Summary: Virgil's mother told him his Gift was from the Gods.Virgil doesn't agree.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Deceit Sanders, Dr. Emile Picani/Sleep | Remy Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 8
Kudos: 78





	Sight

**Author's Note:**

> I am so amazingly sorry for the horrible quality of this, I was struck by inspiration and wrote it in 3 hours when I should be asleep and haven't even read through it to edit so, there could be countless errors.  
> If there are any queries at the end yell at me in the comments,  
> also Remus gets hallucinations, they aren't mentioned much but I think I wrote them alright? I'm not sure, as I said I'm exhausted, but if there are any changes that you think I should make, again, yell at me.  
> Also sorry it might be hard to read because it is very stream-of-consciousness style...

My mother used to tell me it was a gift. A Power given by her Gods, a blessing to a child she loved and longed for, a response to her prayers.

I’ve never worked up the courage to tell her I wish she hadn’t.

She said she was scared when I was born, because as soon as my eyes opened I had an attack. That she thought I wouldn’t survive my first day. There was no way she could have known the reason back then, though we both know now.

The life of a 23-year-old woman is too much for the mind of a child.

In my first few weeks, she desperately tried to figure out how to help. The only thing she found reliable was keeping my eyes shut. It seemed every time I opened them I would be lost and distressed, but after years she realised that that wasn’t the case either.

There would be moments, when she looked into my eyes and I would go glassy-eyed for a moment before coming back to reality. That was commonplace, and always easiest with her.

I barely remember my first day of nursery, of course, I was a very young child. My mother told me the school rang not long after she left, because I’d collapsed.

I was homeschooled from then on.

She used to take me to the park down the road, until I fell from the swing, glassy-eyed, with a broken finger and a concussion. From then on, I played in the garden.

By the time I was old enough to understand my curse, my mother was on her deathbed, a terminal illness gently passing her into the cold claws of death, and I was left alone. Too afraid to leave the house, too afraid to interact with people, it was weeks before someone found us.

I was initially fed into the foster system, but I was too afraid of meeting new people and I would never open my eyes. They tried to get me into a hospital or therapy, but they never found anything wrong with me, and I had a mental breakdown at the therapist’s office. They’d seen too much in their life, and it overwhelmed me.

It was at this point in my life I started to keep a diary.

I wrote down all my life I’d remembered up to this point, and all the memories I’d collected throughout the years, and the more I wrote, the easier it became for me to clear my head. That was the first time I opened my eyes in the orphanage, and I can’t really bring myself to regret it.

The child’s name was Pearl when we met. Pearl had asked me to open my eyes, and I was so surprised that someone chose to talk to me that I did. As soon as we made eye contact I learned about Pearl’s history, that Pearl was not really Pearl at all but Pat, and that there was no good reason for him to have been abandoned here with people like me. I called him Pat, and he was confused, and so I described what I saw from him and he cried in my arms. Ever since then we’ve been inseparable.

For my 11th birthday he told me to keep my eyes closed while he tied a ribbon around my eyes. He asked me to try and look at him, so I complied, and with my vision gone, no memories assaulted me. It was the first time I’d cried in front of him, and his embrace felt like my mothers from years ago.

I was 13 and Patton was 11 when we were adopted. Some kind parents had an eye on him, and he was adamant that if they were taking him, they would have to take me too. He asked me to use my gift, to see if they were kind, and for him, I did.

The first was brought up in a home that wasn’t kind to him, so he lived a life of helping others, so as few as possible would have to suffer in that way. He underwent judgement and scorn throughout his life, but arose triumphant. The phantom pain of years of abuse shocked through my body, and I held onto Patton’s arm to ground me. The second was raised with parents that loved him but were too absent for a child to handle. He was devoted to his children never feeling the pain of being left behind as he had. I nodded at Patton, covering my eyes once again, and before I knew it, we were moving in.

For the first few days Emile and Remy ignored my eye covering, but after a week or so they sat me down to discuss it. I explained the best I could that when I make eye contact with anyone I experience their history that I haven’t already seen, and how overwhelming and distressing it was for me. Patton recounted that whenever I experience memories too intense I pass out, and that he’d given me the ribbon to prevent me from using my gift accidentally.

They taught me braille, after that.

Just before I turned 15, they adopted two more children, identical twins. They were around 9 years old, and my parents asked me if I could use my gift on them so they would know what to help with. With some hesitation, and the assurance that the twins were consenting, I opened my eyes.

They were a picture perfect family. Roman was the perfect child, born to two lovely parents, happily married, well off, with his life planned ahead of him. His past was a breath of fresh air for me, a view into a more perfect life, with only childish, trivial crises. Looking into Remus’ past, I had more difficulty. The memories of his life were twisted around, all in the wrong order, and markedly different from Romans recount. Roman’s memories were picture perfect and clear, like a movie in my head, but Remus’ were warped and full of illogical visions. Insects crawling up and through walls when in Roman’s memory they were pristine and white, creatures in the shadows and eyes in the ceiling. I understood that it was Remus’ hallucinations and intrusive thoughts that his parents couldn’t handle, and Roman wouldn’t let them be separated. It was incredibly cruel of their parents to not even try to understand. They would be cared for here, with parents who were capable and willing to meet any need of their children, and I swore that I would never let them feel that fear and betrayal again.

Of the two brothers, Remus was always the closest to me. I think it was because I understood him. I had seen how he saw the world, and knew how his mind worked, so I could understand and help him in a productive way. I would never forget the first time he had a nightmare and he came to my bed, curling up into my chest as I sang him a quiet lullaby. It became a routine, since the memories turn into nightmares when I sleep, that he would visit the already awake me instead of disturbing one of our fathers. On particularly bad nights I would make us both a hot chocolate and we’d talk or watch movies together until morning came. Our parents never approved, but they realised it helped us, so they didn’t interfere.

Roman stuck to Patton’s side. Their extroversion brought them together, and in a similar way to Remus and I, they understood each other. We fell into a comfortable balance, and it was the beginning of the best of any of our lives.

It was when I was 16 that Patton met Logan, a nonbinary person he met in his class. The first time he brought them home, he was so happy, and they looked at him like they could count the galaxies in his eyes. It was barely a year later that they got together, and I ended up learning Logan’s past.

The first few years of their life were perfect. Born to two wealthy politicians who doted on them like any parent should, they had a wonderful young childhood. Around the age of four, their parents divorced in a horrible manner, and for the rest of their life they were tossed between them, treated like an unwelcome reminder and pushed aside at every opportunity. They threw themself into their schoolwork, initially hoping that excelling would make their parents love them again and then using it as a distraction from their loneliness. Their parents didn’t even know they were non-binary, and Logan refused to tell them, because they knew that neither would care.

When they met Patton, it was the first time they could remember that they’d felt appreciated. They were fast friends, and as Logan opened up more and more about their insecurities and self-worth issues, Patton provided a constant support and kindness that had Logan falling fast.

When I came out of my glassy-eyed state, Logan had reached forward and put their hand on my shoulder to try to get my attention. I asked them if I could hug them, explained what I knew and how, and told them they would always be welcome with us, that our father went through similar hardships as a child, and that we’d all be here for them when they needed us. They didn’t cry, but I could see the shine in their eyes as they pulled back from the embrace. I sent them a smile as they left the room, and in the years to come, whenever they needed someone to empathise, or a comforting smile, or simply someone to relax with, they would often come to me.

It was no surprise when Logan moved in with us few months later. They’d left a note with their parents stating that they would be staying indefinitely with a friend and that they didn’t need them anymore, and when neither of their parents even sent a text to check on them, they came and cried into my open arms. It was the first of many nights they would spend with Remus and I, eating ice cream and letting the Bad fade into the aether, shooed away by gentle hands stroking hair and heads leaning on shoulders and cuddles under soft duvets until all that was left was contentedness.

As my time with my true family led on, I found my gift becoming less of a curse and more of a nuisance. I began to leave my eyes uncovered around the house, though I needed to adopt my dad’s habit of wearing sunglasses since my eyes were so sensitive to light. Since I knew my family’s history, I was only ever shown a fraction of a day at a time, so it became much easier to bear, and I appreciated that I could understand what people needed from me without them having to say. I knew when Logan was bullied for being non-binary at school but felt it wasn’t important enough to say, so I sat them down with a weighted blanket and some tea and put a space documentary on the TV. I knew when Roman had a hard time with understanding his schoolwork, and how to explain the difficult sections in a way he would understand. I could tell when Patton had a bad dysphoria day, and I gave them one of my hoodies and kissed him on the forehead and told him what he needed to hear and he smiled in the way that said I love you without words, and I knew when Remus’ hallucinations took a turn for the worse and gave him music and stories and a comforting presence and he squeezed my hand tightly in a way that said he appreciated my help.

I knew when Remy was having self-esteem issues, when he didn’t feel good enough to be a father, and I comforted him through it, reminding him that he’d helped us all so much to accept ourselves the way we are, that he never made us feel unloved or unwanted, that we loved him just the same.

I knew when Emile needed to deal with intense subjects at his work, and it was all becoming too much, and I told him to sit down with the others, cause I’ll make dinner tonight, don’t worry about a thing because I have it all handled, do you want a cup of tea, and he’d hug me and tell me that I’m a wonderful son, that he doesn’t know what he’d do without me.

It’s on one of the rare occasions I go outside that I meet Janus.

I was having a particularly bad night. I’d spent all evening caring for the rest of my family, so I’d had no time to relax with my thoughts, and the walls of my room were closing in, so I left the house to walk the silent, empty streets of 2am and stare at the stars. I felt the need to write, so I’d brought my notebook and pen, planning to head to a bench in the middle of the park and spill out my thoughts until my head went quiet.

My writing was one of my coping mechanisms for when everything got too much. Years ago, on top of my diary writing, I started to attempt stories and poetry. None of my family saw my writing much, because I didn’t feel it was important, though they all knew I did it. I wouldn’t have minded showing them, apart from that it often took dark turns. Regardless, it was excellent at clearing my mind, and that’s really all I needed it for. I was considering studying creative writing to take it into a career, but it seemed a faraway dream yet.

I met him whilst I was writing on that park bench. Obviously I needed my vision to write, but I thought I would be alone, so it wouldn’t be dangerous. The sky was dark enough that I didn’t need sunglasses, and I was just relaxing and listening to the breeze when he sat next to me.

He asked me what I was doing, and I told him I was writing. He asked me how I was writing when it was so dark, and I responded that my eyes are sensitive to light, so I can see perfectly fine. He asked me whether he could read it, and I hesitated before turning to one of my shorter stories.

I watched him as he read, tracing the contour of his face with my eyes, taking in his yellow gloves and bowler hat. He looked lovely with the moonlight dancing in his dark hair, which was why I was taken by surprise when he looked up at me and met my eyes.

Janus had started life as an orphan in the foster system. He’d been adopted young, but a few months after his adoption he was in a horrible car crash which left him with scarring all down the left side of his body and a cane for the rest of his life. He came out of hospital straight back into the foster system, where he stayed until at 16 he organised to become independent. At 18, in a new town he didn’t know, away from anyone else he knew, he’d come out on a walk to explore the city, where he’d seen me, someone his own age, and wanted to get to know me.

I came back to him holding me in his arms. He said I was out for about 15 seconds, and that he held me to keep me from falling off the bench. I took in his face from the front and gently laid my hand on the scarred side of his face, and he flinched slightly at the contact, before leaning into it. I asked him to walk with me, and as we wandered I spoke truly about myself and my past, delving into wounds that hadn’t healed properly and coming clean about my everyday pain. When dawn approached I covered my eyes once again, him silently moving to hold my hand so I would walk safely, and I told him my address, both so he could guide me home and so he could visit when he needed company. He went silent when I offered my company, but a soft squeeze of my hand showed his appreciation, and I squeezed back. When we parted, he put his number in my phone. I spent the rest of the night writing poetry at my desk, about honey and moonlight and gentle hands.

It was a few days later when Roman ran up to my room, rambling about a scarred man with yellow gloves at the door asking for me. I felt my face brighten as I turned around to ruffle his unruly hair, asking him to invite my friend in and tell him I would be down in a few moments. He ran off and I wrapped up my essay before putting on my shades and making my way downstairs to Janus, sitting in the living room chatting to a very excitable Roman and a slightly more subdued Remus. I came up behind Remus and ruffled his hair before picking him up so I could sit next to Janus, letting him sit on my lap if he wanted, which he did. He was playing with a wood puzzle, trying to fit all the pieces together and failing. We talked and played games for a few hours, with Patton and Logan occasionally emerging from their rooms to join us, and when Remy and Emile got home I introduced them.

It was only a few weeks until my overly affectionate and easily attached parents invited Janus to live with us in my room, and he accepted, surprising no-one.

Janus and I moved out when I turned 22, into a cosy apartment 10 minutes’ walk from my parent’s house. I published my first novel that year, Janus started his journey to becoming a professor of psychology. 3 years later sees Patton into a secure teaching job with Logan, who inspired him. 8 years later Roman is on his way to stardom in film and on stage, and Remus as a well-loved internet personality. 12 years later and Janus and I are looking into adopting a child so we might help them like my parents did. I look back at my life, especially as a young child, and consider if I could ever have imagined it turning out like this. A child tormented by the death of his mother and a gift that he never asked for, finding a family who loves him and making his way to a comfortable life.

I think I know what I’ll write my next book about.


End file.
